


Excellent Birds

by TheSoupDragon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Case Fic, F/F, Graphic descriptions of lovely seaside scenery, John and Sherlock take a trip out of London, M/M, Pretty much the only case fic I've written so far...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:02:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26041633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSoupDragon/pseuds/TheSoupDragon
Summary: Inspired by an AO3 prompt from ShinySherlock on 27/12/14, (yes, this story dates back to that long ago, when I first discovered AO3!....) which was; "Choose a song title from Peter Gabriel's album, "So", and write a Sherlocky fic about it."I'm not a Peter Gabriel fan - the only song of his I knew was "Sledgehammer" - but I do really like prompts like this one, so I had a look at the list of song titles.I chose "This is the Picture (Excellent Birds)" because I liked the total randomness of the title and I had an instant (and immediate) mental image of Sherlock holding up a large oil painting and saying, "This is the picture," which I knew straight away would the first line of my story. I then watched Peter Gabriel's video for the song "Excellent Birds" on You-tube which, if you're interested in watching it, you will see explains some of the early content of my story. :) (Not so seemingly random after all!)Anyway, a big thank you to ShinySherlock for the very unusual prompt which grabbed me enough to make me start writing this. And now I've finally finished it (five years later!!!🙄), so here it is! (Update - on 06/09/20 - suddenly realised the challenge collection might still exist on AO3; searched it and it does!! 🤪 So I have now linked my story to it...!)
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12
Collections: Solock: Sherlock fic inspired by Peter Gabriel's album So





	1. Tea on the Canvas

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by an AO3 prompt from ShinySherlock on 27/12/14, (yes, this story dates back to that long ago, when I first discovered AO3!....) which was; "Choose a song title from Peter Gabriel's album, "So", and write a Sherlocky fic about it."
> 
> I'm not a Peter Gabriel fan - the only song of his I knew was "Sledgehammer" - but I do really like prompts like this one, so I had a look at the list of song titles. 
> 
> I chose "This is the Picture (Excellent Birds)" because I liked the total randomness of the title and I had an instant (and immediate) mental image of Sherlock holding up a large oil painting and saying, "This is the picture," which I knew straight away would the first line of my story. I then watched Peter Gabriel's video for the song "Excellent Birds" on You-tube which, if you're interested in watching it, you will see explains some of the early content of my story. :) (Not so seemingly random after all!)
> 
> Anyway, a big thank you to ShinySherlock for the very unusual prompt which grabbed me enough to make me start writing this. And now I've finally finished it (five years later!!!🙄), so here it is! (Update - on 06/09/20 - suddenly realised the challenge collection might still exist on AO3; searched it and it does!! 🤪 So I have now linked my story to it...!)

"This is the picture," said Sherlock, holding the oil painting up high against the wall and then moving to stand over to one side, so that John could see it.   
"Oh, wow," said John in admiration, and stepped backwards in order to be able to view it properly. "Excellent birds!" He liked the way the artist had depicted the beautiful birds, their wings spread delicately in flight and reflected in the mirror-smooth surface of the water below them.   
"Quite." Sherlock agreed, after a long pause. "That's what it's called actually, 'Excellent Birds'. Now the point is, John, the artist who painted this has disappeared. He was due to exhibit at a tiny gallery near to the Tate Modern - a one-off display for January and February of some contemporary mature artists who have found fame later in life, and he has already supplied several paintings for his exhibition...however, he was due to supply four more but he has now inexplicably vanished. 'Into thin air', it has been said. Which as any idiot knows is impossible."   
"Mmmm...Well, yeah, ok," agreed John. There was a pause. "What do you think, then?"  
Sherlock didn't answer, just continued holding up the picture and looking at it.  
"Do you want me to hold it up for you so you can see it properly?" offered John helpfully.   
"Nope. No need," replied Sherlock, briskly. "Already seen it."   
John rolled his eyes rather resignedly and didn't answer that. Sherlock didn't really appreciate art as decoration anyway. Skulls, yes; landscape paintings, no.  
Sherlock carefully lowered the painting to the floor and leant it against the wall. "This one was the last painting that he completed and it was still on his easel, at his London studio in Leytonstone," he said, studying it.  
"Ok. So, er - why have we got it?" John asked, puzzled.   
"Er, we _haven’t,_ officially. I've got to take it back in a while."   
“ _What?!_ …Oh, great…that’s great!" John spluttered, "So now we're stealing evidence!"  
"No, John," Sherlock said placatingly, "we're simply borrowing it to look at it closely before this becomes a missing person's case sooner or later and the police get involved. Couldn't possibly look properly with the morons from Scotland Yard breathing down our necks - have you seen the size of his studio?"  
Of course John hadn't. Sherlock had got the address from the gallery owner when she had phoned him to ask for his help in finding the missing artist and his four missing paintings as quickly as possible before the exhibition started, and Sherlock had immediately gone round to his studio, found it empty and picked the lock. "It's the size of a shoe cupboard," Sherlock continued. "It'll be even smaller when it's full of police-idiots ogling. Anyway, his exhibition opens on January 7th and they'll certainly need it back before then. We need to find him before the exhibition opens or there's going to be a very unpleasant empty space on the wall."   
"So we've only got two days?" John asked, pulling one of his John-faces.   
Sherlock didn't answer, he just got out his magnifying glass and bent over the painting, leaning it away from the wall so he could examine the edges of the canvas.   
He went all round it while John stood and watched, his hands in his pockets, waiting for some comment.   
“Tea...?” said Sherlock eventually, in a conversational tone.  
"What, on the canvas?" asked John, frowning, unsure of his meaning.  
"No, mud on the canvas, but _I_ need tea," Sherlock retorted scornfully and then he ordered, "Do make some tea, John. I'm gasping."  
"A 'please' would be nice," said John sarcastically, but sarcasm was wasted on Sherlock, who usually just ignored it.  
Sherlock didn’t answer, just knelt on the floor and turned the painting around to examine the back. John went and made the tea, grumpily, and returned a few minutes later with two steaming mugs. "Where do you want yours, then?” he asked, hovering.   
"Where do I...?" repeated Sherlock and he stopped what he was doing mid-question and sat up straight onto his heels, staring at the wall behind John.   
"What now?" asked John, irritated if there was going to be sarcasm to follow, because Sherlock had been in a bad mood all morning, and John was now at the end of his very long and normally very elastic tether. Sherlock's volatile mood swings and his sarcastic snappiness were trying at the best of times.   
“ ‘Where do you want yours, then?’ ” Sherlock repeated vaguely, in a quiet tone. He was very still, his eyes distant.  
“What?” John repeated. He was still irritable but he could see Sherlock was connecting some dots, somewhere.  
“Final word,” Sherlock murmured softly, to himself.  
_One of the dots,_ thought John but he said more or less calmly, “Sherlock… _what?”_ again, to try and bring him back.  
But instead of explaining any of it, Sherlock came back to himself with a brief shake of his head and fluttered his hand dismissively. “Just…something…made me think of—nothing, don't worry. It’s just funny you should say that. That exact phrase you just used was the very last thing the gallery owner said to him - said to the artist - and apparently he was so outraged that his work wasn't going to be hung in what he considered to be 'the pride of place' that he slammed the phone down, apparently stormed off somewhere—"  
"—Slammed the phone down! Stormed off!" John interrupted, handing Sherlock his mug.“What is he, a teenager?"   
Sherlock, also somewhat prone to that sort of behaviour, didn't comment on that. He took the mug absentmindedly, but didn’t drink yet. “He’s in his mid-to-late fifties, John," he said seriously. "And yes, well, anyway, that was the last time anyone associated with the gallery heard of him - that was five days ago. You saying the very same words as the gallery owner put me in mind of something else that she’d said, that was all. Anyway. She’s panicking. She needs those four missing paintings to complete the exhibition - she’s already listed them in her brochure - and she would also like to know that nothing untoward has happened to her artist as he’s not answering his phone or emails.” He took a big sip of his tea.  
"So. We're going looking for a grown adult who may have stormed off in a tantrum and is now in a mood," stated John baldly, his irritation at Sherlock and his incredulity over what sounded like a ridiculous case showing plainly in his voice.   
“We-ll, it's mainly because I owe the gallery owner a favour," replied Sherlock casually, "she has been incredibly helpful in the past. ‘The Case of the Octogenarian Art Fraudster,’ I think you named it on your blog - do you remember that one? And she happened to ask me very nicely."  
John shook his head. "Nothing to do with not having a case on at the moment, then?” He smiled into his cup.  
"Yes, well, there was that too," Sherlock replied honestly, sipping his tea.   
"What's his name, anyway, this artist?" asked John suddenly, who had been thinking about some very similar art that he had seen some time before and quite liked.   
"Gabriel Peters," Sherlock replied, now looking at the back of the canvas.   
"Oh, wow! So it _is_ him!" John exclaimed, wobbling his mug in enthusiasm, "I've–I've actually heard of Gabriel Peters!" He was surprised enough to show his genuine excitement, even though he had only just promised himself in the kitchen while making the tea that he was going to give Sherlock a taste of his own grumpy medicine and show complete and utter disdain for everything that Sherlock said for the rest of the day. However, he had made this promise to himself before - it never lasted very long.  
" _You've_ heard of him?" asked Sherlock, now turning his head to look at John in interest and raising an eyebrow.  
"Er, yeah," replied John, "I've seen his work before. He does a lot of birds, and snow. People sitting looking out of windows. And he's a writer as well."   
"Talented, then…”  
"He is! He's an excellent writer. Uses very long words."   
John neglected to say that Gabriel Peters was also a poet, as he knew Sherlock would definitely scoff at that. John happened to like poetry and he particularly liked several of Gabriel Peters' poems. He had one of his poetry books. The poems were generally about the beauty of coastal scenes, or unrequited or forbidden love and distant longing though, so there was absolutely no way he was going to tell Sherlock about any of that.   
"We need to think like him," Sherlock said suddenly, putting his mug down on the floor and standing up. "He was offended, he was angry, where would he go?"   
"Home?" John suggested practically.   
"Been there. He wasn't there. Letters on the mat and the keyhole and door untouched for at least three days. No. Think." Sherlock snapped.   
"Is he not married? No Family? Any other relations?" John offered.   
"Unmarried. Never married. One sister. But apparently she accrued massive gambling debts and now spends a lot of time in Australia. There was some kind of massive quarrel about a house their parents left to them. They fell out for a while."   
"Oh, so, they're both dead then, the parents?" John said, feeling a pang of solidarity at someone else who knew how it felt to be so completely on your own.  
"Yes, but only a few years ago. The gallery owner said the parents died suddenly in a boating accident,” replied Sherlock.  
"Boating accident! How old were they? If Gabriel Peters is in his mid to late fifties they must have been—"  
"—89 and 91, I think. Apparently the parents were both keen sailors in their day, and they raced boats."  
John was astounded. "Where, abroad?” he asked.  
"No, here, had one of those big boats with sails, moored on some estuary somewhere in—"  
“—You mean a yacht?" said John.   
“Oh, that's the one," Sherlock said, waving his hand dismissively. “Don't know much about yachts, know more about pirate sloops and 18th century galleons—”  
"—Mmm, of course you do," interrupted John, looking at him suspiciously.   
Sherlock turned a sardonic eyebrow on him and continued. “It was a case involving stolen work of art, John. Anyway, as I was saying, the gallery owner said the estuary was over in East Anglia, somewhere - but she didn't really know where, she’s from Chicago..."  
John looked at the picture again. It had looked strangely familiar, somehow...and suddenly he realised why. "Sherlock, that picture - it looks like somewhere I used to know... _that_ was in Essex, of all places."   
Sherlock looked suspicious. John went closer and pointed at the far left corner of the picture. A structure could just be made out coming away from the coast line, into the sea. It had been painted very faintly as if was obscured by the mist and by distance, but it was still identifiable. "See this funny little pier? With the crooked blue shed? It looks just like one I saw in a magazine a couple of years ago."   
"A couple of years ago? Which magazine?" asked Sherlock, like that mattered.   
But John remembered. "It was called 'Country Living'. I had a girlfriend who liked all that ‘aspiration and lifestyle' sort of stuff and I bought her a subscription for Christmas. She lived in Essex and liked walking. So we went for a lot of walks. One of them was a set route featured in her magazine that you could follow; it was a beach and coastal walk, and you were supposed to go along by the quay and follow the estuary, and eventually you reached this pier and the little shed but we...we...er, we...we didn't quite get there."   
Sherlock said nothing but his look said it all.   
"What? I like walking." John said defensively. Then he said, cleverly changing the subject, "Where is Gabriel Peters from anyway?"   
“Essex, apparently,” replied Sherlock, glancing sideways at John, and John knew he was impressed. John couldn't help his quiet glow of pride. "Actually, now I remember exactly where it was," he said, suddenly, remembering. "That coastal walk; it was in a place called Burnham...Burnham something. ...Ah, I know! Burnham-on-Crouch. She lived near there - my...er, the girlfriend."  
Sherlock got his phone out of his pocket.   
"What are you doing now?" asked John, but he thought he could guess.  
"Train times to Burnham-on-Crouch in Essex,” replied Sherlock, typing and frowning.  
'Oh, of course,' thought John. He sipped his tea and waited and moments later, Sherlock said, "Train leaves in an hour and ten from Liverpool Street. Fancy a trip to the seaside?" He grabbed his coat and dropped his phone into the pocket. As he put his scarf on, he said flippantly, "Oh, and er…” he lifted his chin and John caught but didn’t understand the mischievous glint in his eye. “…Bring your book."  
"What book?" John was totally lost.  
"Your poetry book by Gabriel Peters," replied Sherlock.   
‘ _Bastard,_ ’ thought John, now understanding the mischievous glint. "You read my books?" he said, somewhat crossly.   
"Some of them. Why are you so shocked?"  
"I'm not. It's just..." What was it exactly?  
But this time Sherlock interrupted him. "I read your blog, why can't I read your books?"  
"I didn't write that one."  
"John, I am fully aware of _that."_   
What was the point? Sherlock just did what he wanted. Nothing was secret from him; even if you thought it was, it really wasn't. What a way to live. John shook his head and went to get his coat, his wallet, his phone and the book, which lived in John’s bedside cabinet...along with all the other private things he didn’t necessarily want Sherlock to know about. _Some hope of that,_ he thought resignedly. 


	2. Sea Air, a Dry Path and the Quality of the Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to Jae_Blaze and StarsAndStitches, who both saw that something vital was missing from this chapter and patiently beta-read my changes (over and over again) as I tried to make it right...😊

The train from London Liverpool Street into rural East Essex was one of the older ones, tired looking and a bit clackety. Sherlock complained about the age of it.   
"They're not all like this," said John, in its defence. "They're gradually phasing these older ones out, anyway." He didn't mind the older trains, they had character, like old houses.   
For Sherlock though, it was slow, it made a lot of noise, the seats were upholstered in cheap, rough, velveteen fabric that had seen much better days...  
"Sometimes you're like an old woman, with your moaning!" John said eventually. And that shut Sherlock right up. Ten minutes later, he asked John abruptly for the poetry book, and then he pretended to read it the rest of the way.  
They had to change trains once, but by lunchtime, they reached Burnham-on-Crouch; a small, pretty coastal town on the edge of an estuary that time forgot. They got off the train and began to walk. It was lovely - and just as John remembered it. It was quiet and interesting, full of old buildings and white, weather-boarded fisherman's cottages. Sherlock said nothing whilst John admired the scenery and the architecture. John knew this area vaguely well, thanks to the ex-girlfriend, and he began to relay an anecdote back to Sherlock that she had told him, about the history of the village (and one pub in particular) which had been an infamous smugglers’ meeting point, until Sherlock snapped at him about his historical knowledge being wildly inaccurate and so John, finally really pissed off with Sherlock, just shut up and fumed silently.  
They found the tourist office, which was of course closed, but from the helpful maps displayed in the window, they were able to locate the coastal walk and the footpath that John had talked about. The pier and shed - which turned out to be a tiny fisherman’s cottage - both dated back to the 1800's and were Grade II listed. They were also National Trust properties, and as such, well maintained, still intact and very easy to find. 

The walk apparently took 35 minutes from start to shed and early on John realised that Sherlock was going to stay moodily silent the whole way. John didn't care. He found he was really enjoying the beautiful scenery and the fresh sea air; the calling of sea birds and the crisp, bright winter's day were like a balm to his city-worn soul. Early January was usually a bit depressing outdoors, but today it was wonderful. He felt on top of the world. _Sod_ Sherlock. Let him keep his mood. Grumpy bastard. 

The footpath after they left the quay was just a well-worn path of hardened mud and scruffy grass, but it was dry and easy going underfoot. Just as well really, thought John, as neither of them had thought to wear the appropriate footwear for anything more trying. They rounded a curve in the path past some matured hedgerow, and then suddenly found they were walking high up on an old earthen sea-wall, directly alongside the estuary. It was breathtakingly beautiful. The tide was out and John stopped to look. The daylight here by the water was very clear somehow, with a slightly golden feel to it and the birds that were in flight looked like they were lit from below by the sun reflecting off the low water. Even the mudflats looked beautiful, like sleek grey seal-skin. They were pocked with the rune-like footprints of birds.   
"I love the sea," said John, simply, gratefully, in awe of something so beautifully simple. They stood in silence for a moment, looking out at the marshes and the water and the sea in the distance. Then John said suddenly, "I love England. I don’t think I could ever live anywhere else."  
Sherlock felt moved to speak at that. "Nor could I, John,” he said.  
John glanced at him, but he did seem to be showing all the signs of being sincere.

The blue shed and the pier were now clearly visible a little distance away. "Come on then," said John, "I can see it," and then he stopped and pointed. “Hey, Sherlock, there’s someone sitting there!”   
As they drew closer, they realised that the person sitting there was painting at an easel. John could not believe their luck. But then he realised it was not going to be that simple after all. From a closer vantage point, they could see that the person at the easel was a woman. From the grey-white of her hair, John estimated that she was probably in her late 50's, maybe early 60's. She was dressed simply; slightly eccentrically, in an ancient looking, paint-streaked artist's smock and with what looked like a blue boiler suit underneath. She was wearing sturdy and very new walking boots, and her long silver-grey hair was wound up in a wild haphazard bun. She glanced around on hearing them approach, but didn't speak or smile, just nodded at them curtly in cordial greeting and then went back to her work.  
"Afternoon!" called John cheerily as they drew near enough to speak without actually shouting. "May we...er, may we have a look at your painting?"   
She made an impatient lip noise. “If you feel you really must," she said, and she had one of those deep, gruff aristocratic voices. They came and stood beside her to look, Sherlock standing on her right and John on her left. John noticed with interest that she was painting with her left hand as she laid down her brush briefly at their interruption.

The painting that she was working on was striking in its simplicity. It was a detailed study of the shed itself, with the mudflats and water in view just beyond it, and she was remarkably talented at capturing that entrancing golden afternoon light that John so loved. The painting was nowhere near finished yet, but John could already see how good it was going to be.   
"That's really good! It’s…excellent!” John exclaimed, genuinely impressed.  
Sherlock said nothing.   
"Thank you," the artist responded shortly but didn’t move to carry on. Everything in her manner said, _’You two can move along now.’_  
Both Sherlock and John picked up on this cue but they both pretended not to notice. When they _didn’t_ move along, the artist sighed heavily and to emphasise that the conversation was over, she took up her brush from the easel again, lifting the palette in her other hand, and went back to stippling the sunlight reflected off the water and the mudflats in her painting. 

John and Sherlock watched her work and it occurred to John suddenly how remarkably like Gabriel Peters’ her style of painting was.  
And then he thought, ‘Actually, it's more than remarkable...it's _exactly_ like Gabriel Peters. She’s blatantly copying his style!’  
At that moment, Sherlock leaned backwards subtly behind her line of sight, looking at John and meaning to catch John's eye with his movement. He succeeded and they exchanged a significant look. Sherlock was making sure John had seen and acknowledged the similarity of style.   
"Do you do a lot of scenery?" asked Sherlock, innocently.  
She didn't stop painting and after a long pause, she replied, "Quite busy doing this one now, if you don't mind."  
But Sherlock was onto something, John could tell by the way he suddenly began a slow building and enthusiastic appraisal of the scenery, her choice of subject and the quality of the light. He was pretending to be a fellow artist. John watched him and listened to what he was saying - talking about paint types and obscure scenic landscape artists like he was a fellow of the Royal Academy. There was truly no end to the man's talents, John thought with an involuntary smile. The smug annoying grumpy git was simply amazing. 

Watching Sherlock pretend to be someone else was actually quite fascinating. He took someone else's mannerisms and speech patterns and raised and lowered and worked his voice like a musical instrument enthusiastically producing a completely different sound. He actually briefly became someone else. He could have been an actor, thought John, watching him discreetly and listening as Sherlock won the artist round. She had stopped painting to listen to him and was now agreeing vehemently with something Sherlock was saying about the colour of Burnt Umber versus Deep Sienna for these sorts of ‘mud-heavy’ landscapes.  
Sherlock said something else about the practicalities of using boiled linseed oil and she started to laugh. Like her voice, her laugh was rusty - it didn’t sound like it got used very much.

‘Well,’ thought John, ‘he's done a perfectly good job on his own… _again.’_ Having been thoroughly excluded from the conversation, John looked around to just enjoy the view. Then a thought struck him. How had she got here, to this remote point with all her equipment? There was no car - and absolutely nowhere to park one anyway, the spot where they stood was completely inaccessible to vehicles - it was footpath only. They hadn't passed any empty cars parked anywhere obvious on the way. Unless she had parked in the town centre…but that would mean a long walk carrying all this equipment, he mused. There was no other way to get here, she _must_ have walked…but carrying all this stuff? The car park for the quay had been fairly busy, John remembered, but the empty cars they had passed hadn't seemed your typical artists' cars; if indeed there was such a thing. John remembered a particularly nice beaten-up old Jag. Surely not? She didn't seem the Jag type somehow. Sherlock would remember the cars, he'd have to ask in a minute. John was still looking around at the view and the shed when he spotted the handlebars of what looked like a pretty ancient blue bicycle propped against (and mostly behind) a large sturdy gorse bush nearby. She had tucked the bike away so as not to distract her view from the scene she was painting.   
Then he clicked what Sherlock would have seen and realised instantly. An ancient bike plus relatively awkward and heavy art equipment to be transported all the way out here meant she must live very locally.  
Sherlock and the artist had been talking animatedly and John suddenly heard Sherlock say, “—Wouldn’t you say, John?"  
John became aware that he had missed a vital prompt to bring him into this little improvisation. "Hmmm?" he asked, raising his eyebrows in question.   
"I _said,”_ Sherlock widened his eyes to give a clue to what John's answer should be, "this scene brings to mind that wonderful poem about the mudflats at dawn…Oh, dear me, what was it called, John, you know, that poem you like? By that chap ...'Peters' something?… ‘The glow of waking sun on mud, the January dawn...the tide creeps in to take its bed while seabirds call forlorn…' _that_ one…?”

John was first of all rather taken aback that by coincidence, out of all the poems in the book, Sherlock had memorised the first two lines of what he thought of as one of his favourite poems, but then he thought that with Sherlock, there were no coincidences - and then he was instantly distracted from his own introspection when he noticed the artist's reaction to Sherlock's words - and her reaction was very odd. Standing next to her as he was, John suddenly realised he could feel the tension emanating from her in waves. He looked down at her hand holding the paint brush and saw that the smallest joints of her fingers were white and rigid where she was holding the brush so tightly. Her hand was very slightly shaking and her posture had straightened. Her ruddy face had even paled somewhat and she was looking fixedly at her canvas. She was suddenly wound as tightly as a spring. Gone was the relaxed laughing attitude of only a few moments ago.   
“Who _are_ you?” she asked coldly and suspiciously, without looking up at either of them.  
"My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is Dr. John Watson," Sherlock supplied formally, his voice soft and persuasive, “and—”  
She gave a visible start. _“Oh!”_ she said, interrupting him, “Oh, good God!” And she turned round and looked fully at him, studying his face, brows lowered, her mouth slightly open. _“You’re_ Sherlock Holmes?! I _thought_ you looked somewhat familiar!” The penny had obviously dropped. Then she turned the other way and looked hard at John. “And _you’re_ Dr. Watson who writes it all up…”  
He smiled under her scrutiny. “We are…” he said agreeably, tipping his head modestly to the side.  
Satisfied, she turned back to Sherlock and continued before he could. “You two solved the forgery case of Leslie Barratt-Gleeson two years ago, didn’t you?” she said quickly.  
John did that thing where he drew his chin into his neck and raised his eyebrows in confusion. Sherlock noticed this but ignored it and didn’t let it make him smile. “‘The Case of the Octogenarian Art Fraudster’, yes, we did,” Sherlock said placidly, still not looking at John, but managing to note John’s instant _oh, that one!_ expression out of the corner of his eye.  
She laughed and actually slapped her knee. “Oh, that wily old bugger, Leslie! I knew him from times past!” she said, shaking her head, all jolly once again. “He would have gotten away with that for _years_ \- well, however many he had left - if you two chaps hadn’t caught on!” She was clearly full of approval over an issue that was so close to her heart. Leslie B-G (as John had mentally shortened it to) had fraudulently pocketed nearly a quarter of a million dollars in a private American auction by imitating an early painting in the style of a less well-known Italian artist. He had passed it off as a ‘re-discovered’ lost piece of work, discovered when he was living in Venice and working in a museum there, renovating the old artworks.  
The woman shook her head. “Well done on that one,” she said. “There were plenty of us who were very suspicious about that so-called ‘lucky find’!”  
Sherlock waited for her to come back to the topic at hand. After a moment, she remembered it, and became more solemn once again. “So, you’re not an artist, then. What is it you two want from me?” she said, clearly now unsure what their purpose was.  
"Nicolette asked us to find you,” Sherlock interjected quickly, “We know who you are - we'll keep your secret. We just want to know why."  
"Why _what?”_ she asked, a little sharply, in a way which suggested she knew exactly what Sherlock was asking about.   
"Why are you pretending to be Gabriel Peters?" Sherlock asked, confirming John's steadily growing suspicions.  
She gave a start again and tried to smother it. “I…I don’t know what you mean…” she said quickly and, John thought, cautiously, as it was obvious that she did.  
“Oh, I think you do….” said Sherlock calmly, but he wasn’t being aggressive, just firm.  
There was a moment of solid unbroken silence whilst she weighed up the situation. Eventually, she took a deep breath and sighed heavily, rolling her brush in her fingers. “It’s not what you think…” she said looking at it.  
Sherlock said nothing, holding his hands behind his back and waiting patiently for the denouement. She put her brush down carefully again into the little furrow on the easel, making a decision, John thought.  
“I’m Gabr _iella_ Peters,” she said, looking down at her brush. “Gabriel Peters is my brother.”  
_“What?!”_ said John, jerking back in surprise, and he didn’t know what he had been expecting, but he truly had not been expecting that. He looked at Sherlock, who had his poker player’s face on.  
_“Look,”_ she turned to face John momentarily and took a deep breath. A big explanation was coming, he thought. “I need to explain something,” she started. “I’m not a fraud or a plagiarist, like Leslie.” She sighed. “Seeing as you have me over a barrel, here…I might as well just tell you—” and here she interrupted herself, saying, “—one sec—” and then she stood up awkwardly and shuffled around her small seat. She sat down again on the other side of it, now facing them both and they stepped back a bit to give her some room - like her audience. John crossed his arms, which Sherlock knew to be one of his listening positions, and waited.  
Gariella paused for a moment and looked at them, each in turn, gathering her story. “That’s better,” she said, meaning her facing them both at the same time. Then she settled back on her seat and started. “—My brother was already massively in debt by the time he was just beginning to get a name for himself in the art world..." She paused and looked at Sherlock. “Do you remember the news about the Turner Prize in 2013? It caused a huge sensation as it was won by a complete unknown. _That_ was Gabriel."   
“Gab?" asked John, as suddenly something new clicked into place. “Wait - does he sometimes call himself ‘Gab’, professionally?”  
"Yes. Or at least, he did!…We call each other Gab,” she smiled, explaining it as an aside. “It’s…it’s a little joke we have...Anyway, it was he who provided the painting to decorate the entrance of Claridge's hotel for the visit of the emperor and empress of Japan. It was a massive stroke of luck to get that commission and it was only because he knew the general manager from somewhere - university, I think - and he asked Gab to do it as a favour.” She started to re-do her messy bun as she spoke. “It was a very popular piece, many wealthy clients saw it and liked it, and so he started to get commissions, the money started to roll in and then it started to roll out again even faster because now he _really_ had the money to gamble—“ she pulled her bun tight and sat up straighter. “—Anyway, and so he gambled it all away and then he began to borrow.”  
John began to see where this was going.  
“He just got deeper into debt,” Gabriella continued, “He’d bought a bloody huge house and then defaulted on his mortgage and he very nearly lost his bloody stupid huge house…” she looked at Sherlock again. Both Sherlock and John were listening intently, and so she carried on, leaning back again on her little seat.   
"So, I decided to take over. I’ve always been the sensible one…Gab was always the dreamer! Anyway, I paid off his debts by selling our parents’ house. They had left it to us equally when they died, and I was still living there at that time, but I really didn't want to live there anymore, and nor did he…we were due half the money each, but he was so in debt, he'd already gambled away almost all of what would have been his inheritance.” She scratched her ear, looking slightly saddened as she remembered the event. "He was sorry, but he said he just couldn't help himself." John found himself nodding with understanding. Just another kind of addiction, just another addict in the family, desperate for a fix.  
“Yeah. Of course," he murmured, not quite to her, not quite to himself. Sherlock noticed this with a sideways flick of his eyes but didn't comment.   
Gabriella continued, starting to collect her brushes and wiping them on a strip of rag. "With the money we made on our parents' house, I was able to pay off his debts and clear his name, and I supported him financially while he went into a retreat, and from there, joined Gamblers' Anonymous. When he came out of it all, he wanted a fresh start.” She stopped wiping and looked at them both. “And quite frankly, so did I! I didn’t want his money - I don’t need it - so in exchange for the debt he offered me his artist’s identity. He had always wanted to emigrate to Australia and get away, but my mother would never have let him go without a fight. He couldn’t go when our parents were still alive, but once they were gone, he was free. And so he went. He now lives in Sydney, Australia, with no debts at all in this country and he has created a new life as a sculptor out there under a different name, and I have a completely anonymous wonderful life here as a painter and writer.” She bent and started to pack away her paints and thinners as she spoke. “I don’t want all the fuss and fanfare, thank you very much. I just want to enjoy my life. Which is painting and writing.” She shut the little carrying box and looked up at them both to judge their reactions. 

__Her explanation was like hearing a series of tiny jigsaw pieces clicking perfectly into place. "I see," said John, his mind whirring to put it all together. He glanced at Sherlock and saw he was far ahead in the jigsaw stakes, but John wanted to hear the real reason why they were here from the horse's mouth. "But still, why did you disappear off like that? What was all that about the gallery owner and you storming out? You seem very laid back about your art, if you don't mind me saying so - were you _really_ so offended about where your work was hung?"  
Gabriella reared back in outrage. _“What!_ That silly girl! Is that what she said? It wasn't about _that_ at all! Although I admit, I was rather cross about Neville Granville's work being positioned in the exhibition before mine - age before beauty after all, and he’s a mere baby, he's only 48! The reason I was angry was because she said I _needed_ to attend...Well obviously, she meant _Gabriel Peters_ had to attend. When I telephoned her - when I was pretending to be my brother - I tried to tell her I never made public appearances and she damned well used emotional blackmail on me. It made me so angry, I slammed the phone down. I put up with emotional blackmail all my life from my parents, I'm _not_ putting up with it from some nobody-gallery-owner. Silly young chit of a girl!”_ _

__"Hang on," said John, slowly, "What? I’m confused, you tried to tell her you never made public...? But I thought you were pretending to be Gabriel? What do you mean? You pretend to be him on the phone? What about when you need to hand pictures over and collect payment and things?"  
Sherlock felt the need to prove his superior jigsaw sorting ability here and he interrupted, "John, Gabriella only has to pretend to be him on the phone, in person she _is_ his sister. Which is what she is. Do you see?"  
"What? No - not really!" John replied, but then he did see - he saw how her voice could easily pass for a man's voice on the phone, it was quite deep and gruff anyway. And brothers and sisters often had very similar sounding voices - or similar in tone, at least. Of course, in person when delivering the paintings etcetera, she only had to say she was his sister, which she was. Of course. Worked perfectly.   
"I just say he's away on business at the moment, or in Australia, or on holiday, painting," she clarified. "No one needs to know! If I really need to be him for a private commission, then I...I just _am._ We look very alike anyway. I don't have to try very hard to pretend to be my brother!"  
“Why didn't you just...come out…and, you know, be yourself, be an artist too?” John asked.  
If Sherlock made any response to that, John didn't notice.  
“That’s...a complicated one," she sighed, running a finger down the edge of the canvas. “My brother and I are twins, and we were the only children. My parents thought they wouldn't be able to have children and then _wham,_ we came along. By then they were rather old for their generation to be new parents when they had us two, they were in their mid-forties. We were what was then known as 'miracle babies.' Our parents were very old fashioned, very protective, and very strict. Controlling, even." She paused, looking over at the sea for a moment before she took a breath and continued. "My brother took after my mother, who was an artist. They had always told us there was only room for one creative person in each generation, and as he’d chosen it first, then that was Gab. They told me from childhood that I needed to be the sensible one, and so I was later persuaded to go into law, like my father. Fat lot of good that did me. Blasted waste of time. Rather be painting. Or writing."  
John was still confused. ”So, who wrote the books then - Gabriel?" asked John.  
“No! Me!" she replied, "The first was published in 2010. I used Gab's name to publish it though, Father would not have approved if I had published under my own name…I was still working then, I was senior judge at the Old Bailey, and father would have thought it unprofessional to be publishing _love poetry!_ But I was always the writer, secretly, though Gab was always the artist. It was just that when I took over his identity, I took over that too."  
"But...you can paint really beautifully!" said John, looking at the proof in front of him.   
"Yes. I can," she said, quietly. "I just didn't know I could until I tried and I didn't really try until my parents were suddenly gone and I was free to choose.” She was in her stride now and this was not just an explanation, but an introspection, John realised. He found he was really interested in what she had to say. “Once they were gone, I realised I had let them hold me back,” Gabriella continued, “hidden my real self. People label people - but I have learnt _not_ to label people; we are what we make ourselves. We are what we spend our energy creating."  
"Wow, and I can see you're a writer," said John appreciatively.   
She turned to fully look at John and her face softened. "Carpe diem, Dr. Watson, 'Seize the day’,” she said.  
John knew what the Latin phrase meant, but hearing it said like that, by her, at that moment; it meant more than it ever had before.  
"Sooo," said Sherlock, clapping his hands together once to break the spell and deftly taking control again - clearly irritated that he hadn't really been able to impress John that much this time - because John had almost worked it out for himself anyway, "What are we going to do about the missing paintings that you need to supply for your exhibition?"  
She looked back at Sherlock with renewed interest. “Well. You managed to locate Gabriel Peters, who had gone to visit his sister in Essex, and he was pleased to give you the paintings to take back to London for him, thus saving him a trip!” she said with a wry grin, and and then she stood up, stretching her back a little. "Now. Would you two like to come back for tea at mine and pick them up? Luckily, they’re on the small side…I’ve done more than enough here for today anyway and it's rather a long walk back in the dark by torchlight. Plus, you can make yourselves useful and help me carry all my stuff."  
John snorted in amusement and then smiled, “It would be our pleasure. And I never say no to the offer of tea!"  
Sherlock just raised one eyebrow sarcastically but didn't disagree. He clearly wanted some tea too. __

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The National Trust: If a building or structure is Grade II listed, it means it has protection from being demolished, significantly altered or developed, due to its irreplaceable historic value. The National Trust is a real organisation in the U.K. that preserves such historic buildings, gardens and land for the future, and has many Grade II listed buildings on its books, but the fisherman's shed and the pier I mention only exist in my mind. (In the U.S., the National Trust exists but it is known as The Royal Oak.)


End file.
